


Block Letters

by harpydora



Category: The Room Where It Happened (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Other, Season: Luume, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, mentions of major character death (he got better though)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28919103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harpydora/pseuds/harpydora
Summary: The first thing Qess learns to read is their own name, printed in neat, blocky letters on the special lined paper provided at school.The second thing Qess learns to read is what's written in red on the inside of their wrist: a name in blocky chicken scratch.Seshmir.
Relationships: Seshmir Narash/Original Character(s), Seshmir Narash/Qess Thunderscales
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4
Collections: Secret Druids of the Stones 2020 (A Standing Stones Fanwork Exchange)





	Block Letters

**Author's Note:**

> So the prompt for this fic was "Pairing (if any) or Character: Qess (OC)/Seshmir; Prompt: soulmate au (tattoos/words on body/senses coming to life); ot3 with Wynn acceptable; EXCLUDE: anyone/Nyarlathotep" and this is what happened lol. I hope my recipient (whose identity is completely unknown ;) enjoys and doesn't mind that I cannibalized some elements from my TAZ soulmate AU!

The first thing Qess learns to read is their own name, printed in neat, blocky letters on the special lined paper provided at school.

The second thing Qess learns to read is what's written in red on the inside of their wrist: a name in blocky chicken scratch.

Seshmir.

It's not the most common name, Qess reckons. It should be easy to find them. Him. Her? A part of Qess speaks up in the back of their mind: definitely him. And a teenage Qess spends more than a little bit of time wondering what this Seshmir guy might be like. Would he be a human? No, Seshmir sounds like more of a tiefling kind of name. Maybe a dragonborn like them? Definitely  _ not _ an elf.

The curiosity and vague fantasies don't stop as Qess gets older. As they pick up musical instruments, they wonder: what kind of music would Seshmir like? Would he like the sugary, upbeat music that is popular right now? Or would he favor ancient ballads that had almost been forgotten?

No, Qess decides. The Seshmir that occupies their mind is a classy gentleman. He'd be the kind of guy who likes sultry crooning in a smoky lounge. He'd like intimate venues and low lights and lone singers holding their microphone like a lover. So this is the type of bard Qess seeks to become.

As they train and take small gigs in various venues (both classy and dives and everything in between), they scan the crowds for a dragonborn who is never there. 

Their friends begin finding the owners of the signatures on their bodies. At 18, Marlin finds Terra while doing a gig at a kind of shitty nightclub. Keani meets Brandon and then There-Are-Other-Worlds-Than-These-Both-Great-And-Small at the same time in a coffee shop one chilly winter day.

Their friend Parker remains resolutely mate-less through much of their friendship with Qess, until he literally runs into an older bugbear gentleman with the kindest eyes Qess has ever seen.

It's not that Qess is  _ unhappy _ for his friends, not in the slightest. But when he's 25 and all his friends are sorting out the shapes of their relationships with their destined loves (both romantic and platonic), well… It's hard not to feel a twinge of jealousy.

Okay, maybe a pretty good amount of jealousy. But who could blame them? Yeah, soulmates can come into your life at any time, with or without warning, but it's hard to be the only person he knows who hasn't met his own.

*

It happens late one night in the dead of winter. The evening had been calm, Qess curling up against the cold with a pile of blankets and a mug of cider as they watched the snow fall. It was easy to lull himself into thinking the city outside was a peaceful place. They went to bed once the cider was gone and settled in for a soft night of sleep. 

Except their peaceful slumber is shattered by searing pain on their arm—their  _ wrist.  _ They manage to swallow their agonized scream as they scramble out from under their covers, but it's a near thing. The pain is so intense that it brings tears to Qess's eyes and makes his vision swim. It's several more minutes until he can see clearly again as the pain ebbs a little.

Breathing heavily, nostrils flaring, Qess squints in the dim light to see what could have caused the pain that woke them. Nothing seems apparent at first. There's no blood, no wounds, no obvious cause for their distress. But as their vision clears, they realize what's wrong.

Where the name Seshmir had been written was a mass of scar tissue that resembles a badly healed burn and not blocky chicken scratch at all.

The first thing that hits Qess is icy and cold, like clawed fingers clutching at their heart. Their blood feels like slow slush in their veins as they process what they're looking at. A low, bubbling sadness pushes past the icy floes in their chest and turns into a low keening sound in the back of their throat. Anguish given a physical outlet, but the pain is deeper than just their skin now.

It isn't  _ fair. _ It isn't  _ right. _ Anger burns hot in the pit of his stomach and sears all the ice away. It can't be true. It just  _ can't _ be. There's no way the universe would be so cruel as to wipe that writing away from Qess's wrist.

Except the evidence is right in front of their eyes. The anger quickly collapses back into something dark and cold.

Qess's soulmate is dead, and the only thing he ever knew about him is his name.

*

Life, as it turns out, goes on, although it takes a few days before Qess can manage to drag himself out of his bed. He calls off a gig that he really probably shouldn't, but the manager of the club is at least understanding enough to give him another shot later that month. Their next gig is a low-key affair at a speakeasy across town, and it's pretty easy to work their melancholy into their sound.

One of the bartenders even has to excuse herself to go wipe away her tears. It's a good show, and Qess gets invited back to perform again later that week.

After one show, a patron of the speakeasy approaches Qess; a short woman with a slinky dress that rivals Qess's and a matching cropped jacket held over one shoulder. As she approaches, she removes her jacket from her shoulder and folds it over one forearm. On her shoulder, Qess notices a nasty-looking burn mark. It's healed a bit, but not even time can reduce the hints of how bad it had been when the woman had gotten it.

Wait. No, it isn't a burn. Rather, the place where her soulmate's signature would be. Qess's stomach churns.

"I just wanted to say 'I'm sorry,'" the woman states in a tone that Qess can't help but interpret as pity. "I know it's not my place, but… It's difficult. But you don't have to be alone." She reaches into one of her jacket pockets and pulls out a card. "I've got a support group for people around town who… you know." She gives Qess's wrist a significant look.

The pity only elicits a defensive sort of anger. Qess pulls their wrist close, turning it away from the stranger. They take a step back. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says waspishly. "I just burned myself on the stove." The lie slips out easily, far more easily than Qess expects it would.

The woman's eyes grow sad, but she nods. "Well, I wish you a speedy recovery," she says. "But in case you want to talk to other burn victims…" And she sets the card down on the table she'd stood up from.

Qess says nothing, and the woman says nothing else in return as she leaves.

He does not pick up the card, instead letting the busser take it when they clear the tables.

The next day, he buys several elaborately decorated cuffs and bangles to wear on his wrists. The last thing they want is for someone  _ else _ to identify them as a so-called "burn victim" and shower them with pity.

That night, Qess works the same club. His eyes scan the room, a part of him afraid that the woman might show up again. She doesn't, though, and they finish their set without incident. Well, other than someone in the audience visibly pulling out a kerchief to dab at their eyes.

Guess their talents lie in breaking people's hearts with their crooning. Who knew?

The bangles do the trick, though. No one notices the scar on their wrist, or if they do, no one else seems to care.

*

It's a year and some change since what Qess has been referring to as "the incident." Specifically, it's a foggy Tuesday morning that's only recently been Monday night. The street lamps produce tiny oases of light in the mist that Qess moves from one to another. It's a quiet night—that special sort of quiet that only deep fog can bring, where every sound is wrapped in cool cotton.

Of course, just because the fog muffles noises doesn't mean that Qess can't hear the sound of a struggle at the edge of the pool of light a few street lamps down the direction he's going. He can make out the shape of the figures: it looks like an elf locked in some sort of grappling contest with a tiefling. But then the struggle spills into the light, the tiefling toppling head over heels with the elf and landing on her back with the elf straddling her torso.

The elf's hands dart into the tiefling's jacket and pull out a wicked-looking knife.

"I didn't want to do this," Qess can barely hear them say. "But you left me no choice." And the elf plunges the knife into the tiefling's throat.

Qess knows well enough to choke back the scream that threatens to emerge from their throat. And they know well enough to run the other way and hope the fog swallows the sound of their footsteps on the street.

They make it home by taking the long way around, not obviously followed by anyone. They make sure to throw the deadbolt and lock the door handle to their apartment anyway.

He leans against the door as soon as he's inside and has made sure everything is locked up. His breath comes out all in a rush; he hadn't been holding it on the way home, of course, but in some ways it  _ felt _ like he had. The breath in his lungs had gone directly towards running as fast as he could. There'd been no room for anything else.

But now… If they closed their eyes, they could still see the look of malice on the elf's face, the look of despair on the tiefling's.

Fuck.

They need a bath. Partly to wash off the smoke of the club that they'd been performing in but mostly to distract themself from what they'd just seen.

*

It's the following Tuesday that the gumshoe comes in. Qess spots him sitting at a table in the middle of the room—not too close to the stage, but not too far away from it, either. He's a dragonborn and he's dressed like the picture of a private investigator. Not trying to be terribly subtle.

Well, that's unfair. He's not dressed too far off from what other people in the room are wearing, but something about him… Qess just can't take his eyes off of him through his entire set. The only time Qess loses track of him is during his encore, when the PI stands up from his table and disappears into the smoky gloom of the bar.

There's a moment, albeit a brief one, where Qess feels a twinge of regret that the gentleman left before he could find out more about who he is or what brought him to the club. But then he heads back to his dressing room.

"Mx. Azuria," the PI says from where they stand next to the dressing room door. He's addressing Qess by the stage name he'd had the club put on the promotional posters. "I don't want to take up much of your time, but I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?"

Qess raises an eyebrow. Getting to see the gentleman up close is… something. He's quite a bit taller than Qess, at least six feet tall by their best guess. Now that there's less smoke between them, Qess can tell his scales are a shiny blue. His tie has been loosened a little, which lends him a little rakish charm.

Rakish charm? Qess has to stifle a scoff. Instead, they just sigh. "I don't usually talk to strangers when I'm on the job. Bad idea to mix work and play, you know?" They offer a slight smile.

"I'm Seshmir Narash," the gentleman says, taking off his hat and holding it by the brim with both hands. "I won't mince words. I have reason to believe you might be in danger."

Qess doesn't even process what Seshmir says after his name at first. Seshmir is certainly not a common name, and even after all this time, it manages to light a tiny spark in Qess's heart. But their Seshmir is dead. The scar on their arm  _ proves _ it.

And yet…

Despite themself, Qess lets his guard down a little. "Alright. I've got a few minutes. Let's talk." He opens the door to the small dressing room and gestures for Seshmir to meet him inside.

Seshmir waits for them to go first and quietly shuts the door behind himself. He gives them plenty of space and adverts his eyes as they begin to change. "I'm not going to waste your time, Mx. Azuria. I think you may have witnessed something terrible, and I think that might have put you in danger." His voice is low. Even. Almost soothing. 

Qess's blood runs cold, and his mind dredges up the image of that elf and that tiefling from the week prior. Seshmir continues, "There was a disagreement between my client's partner and an unknown party that resulted in my client's partner's death. My client has their suspicions, but all the leads I've followed have ended with dead bodies."

"I—I see," Qess says, words shaking. "Well, I'm not sure what to tell—"

It's at that moment that Seshmir grabs their wrist and jerks them out of the way of the incoming eldritch blast that shatters the door to the dressing room. His fingers curl around it in such a way that the pads of his fingers touch bare skin rather than just the fancy bangles they are wearing. A jolt of electricity shocks Qess to their core before they fall forward into Seshmir's waiting arms. They chalk it up to the adrenaline of almost getting injured (and maybe a little bit to being so close to someone so handsome, even under such dangerous circumstances).

Seshmir spins so his body is between Qess and the door, one arm crackling with eldritch energy of his own. Qess squeezes their eyes shut before they can see what happens next, though they can smell the bitter ozone of magic that's just a little left of  _ wrong. _

It doesn't take long for Seshmir to disable their assailant, a man that Qess recognizes as one of the wait staff at the club, one of the old-timers. Damn.

"We have to go," Seshmir says, tugging gently on Qess's wrist.

There's that spark again.

Qess doesn't say anything and just nods.

*

It isn't until they reach Seshmir's office that Qess realizes something is wrong. Or maybe not wrong.  _ Different. _ Their wrist itches, and they go to rub at it with the pads of their fingers, but that's when their heart nearly stops.

The skin underneath their fingertips feels almost smoothe. 

They push aside their bangles and look at their wrist.

There, in scarlet, blocky chicken scratch, is Seshmir's name.

Their Seshmir had died more than a year ago. And yet, here his name is, almost as if it had never been erased.

A quiet, relieved sob wracks Qess as they continue to stare at the writing on their arm.

"Are you okay, Mx. Azuria?" Seshmir asks.

"Qess," they say through rapidly accumulating tears. "My name is Qess."

Seshmir freezes. Then, very deliberately, he says, "Oh."

There isn't any stopping the flow of tears now, but Qess isn't sure that he wants to. "It's you. It's finally you."

Seshmir nods. "Yes."

"I thought you  _ died. _ I thought I'd lost you before I ever found you."

"I did die," Seshmir agrees. His voice is strained as he approaches Qess. "But I got better."

Once Seshmir is within arm's reach, Qess draws him into a crushing hug. Seshmir lets out a tiny huff of breath from the sheer force of Qess's embrace before bringing his arms up to hold Qess in return.

"It's you," Qess repeats.

"It's you, too," Seshmir echoes.


End file.
